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He slathered the glue on my scalp and talked non-stop about Harlem. Electrodes or nodes, I never asked which, would measure something inside my head. I doubt they actually did though, measure anything. I’ve had the pleasure of having wires glued to my skull before and have never once seen results. I’m not buying it.

He, Dallas, had just moved to Milwaukee from the most dangerous – as he put it – borough of New York City for a hospital job. I’m not buying that either. Unless he spun until dizzy and burned a hole into a map on our fine town with a lit cigarette, there’s no way he came to Wisconsin JUST for a hospital job. Right?

But what does an over cynical 30 something with possible brain injuries know about it? Nothing I guess.

It’s easy to convince yourself that self sufficient animals that only truly need you to pull back a tab and spork their meals into a bowl need you around all day when your thoughts have become so decayed that you feel it’s your true calling.

Stealing time. Always gambling. I used to wake up with wet eyes; remnants of nights and days spent in places I never wanted to leave. I took to insomnia to escape the dreams that reminded me of places I could never return to. Now I sleep here. When I can.

Without reason and without conviction, he walked into the garage and decided that Bob Dylan may not be as good of a songwriter as Bernie Taupin.

Digging deep, mentally flipping through the years and songs, he recounted that he had not once but five times (that he could recall) lost his voice screaming the words to Levon. That was three more times than he had lost his voice to Tonight I’ll be Staying Here With You and one of those times, he was sure that hash played a big role. Hash and bug spray.

As he got to the end of the argument that he instigated, from across the fence – the drunken neighbor’s radio played Walk on the Wild Side which immediately brought Lou Reed’s songwriting ability to mind which in turn called up David Bowie’s cover of Waiting for my Man.

The neighbor – passed out, teeth rotting with fruit flies hovering and circling above his head – feeding off the alcohol exiting – made him recall Shane McGowan and Fairy Tale of New York which always reminded him of Tom Waits for one reason or another.

As he continuously devolves, this cycle never ends … But it always begins with Bob Dylan.